Bent.

9. Could You Sympathize with My Needs?

9. Could You Sympathize with My Needs?

He returned to the club that following Tuesday after exactly 12 of his text messages went unanswered.

At 8pm.

On a Tuesday.

Like the biggest creeper to ever... creep.

He had used Kirstin to talk to Rozzi in order to figure out when Scott would be working next. This is what they landed on. So here he was, exactly 3 stools away from a middle-aged man with a gold band on his ring finger. He glared at him, as though warning him to stay the hell away. The man averted his gaze immediately, sipping his bourbon and trying to disappear from Mitch's view.

Scott wasn't even here yet. How desperate could Mitch be?

Scott walked up right as Mitch ordered from another bartender. The blond narrowed his eyes at him, unzipping his sweatshirt and placing it on a hook in the back. And now Mitch had to watch him in this damn outfit again.

He should burn the damn thing.

"New level of boredom hitting you?" Scott asked as he took out two glasses for a couple of guys across the way, beginning to make a drink that looked entirely too complicated for a strip club on a Tuesday. "Didn't think you'd be part of my Tuesday crowd."

"I wanted to talk to you," Mitch admitted.

Scott shook up a drink, and Mitch glanced around the club, simply so he wouldn't watch Scott's muscles flex beneath the fabric of his shirt as he did so.

Scott wiped his hands with a towel. "Well, you found me. And I can't run. So, well done."

There was no joking tone. Scott felt backed into a corner, and he had every right to feel that way. Mitch watched as he brought the drinks over to the pair, and he started to give up hope.

"Give me one second, then we'll talk. Okay?" Scott added, his tone changing to be a bit softer. Understanding.

Way too kind.

Scott disappeared for a moment, and another bartender came back with him.

"Thank you. I won't be gone long," Scott said, grabbing his sweatshirt again and gesturing for Mitch to follow.

Mitch watched the man three stools away narrow his eyes with disappointment. He wanted to hit him.

He led him to an alleyway in the back of the club. There was a small table with some chairs, and it was directly next to a dumpster.

"Quaint," Mitch muttered.

"It's our break room," Scott joked. But Mitch didn't like it. It only perpetuated his fears that it would only take one nut job to make his fear of Scott getting hurt to become a reality.

"Do you come out here alone?" Mitch asked.

"You're awfully concerned for my safety suddenly, aren't you?" Scott asked, zipping up his sweatshirt and placing his hands in his pockets.

"This place gives me the creeps."

"How much did Rozzi pay you to say that?" Scott asked, a hollow laugh escaping his lips. "Anyway, you wanted to talk. Go ahead. I have to get back soon, though."

It was frustrating to know that Scott didn't want to talk at all, but that he was humoring him anyway. That was so unlike his Scott, it made Mitch want to shake him.

"I have problems."

Scott's eyes softened. Not with pity. God knew that Mitch hated pity. It was more... concern.